The Case of the Missing Skull
by ObookNorth
Summary: EXTREME FLUFF. Sherlock can't sleep. Kind of pre-relationship. Sleepy Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

(Sherlock is not mine! Some extreme cuddly fluff for everyone! Happy Easter!)

There was a loud crash from down in the sitting room that John tried very hard not to think about. It was close to 11 pm and he was reading a very good detective novel about a chap who did not keep human heads in the freezer, have a brother who was the British Government, or went through severe 'case withdrawal' within hours of solving something, and actually accepted pay for his work without a best friend/caretaker hovering in the background.

"John!" It was less a shout up the stairs and more an actual bellow, and John Watson groaned. He wasn't about to have a shouting match with Sherlock up and down the stairs to his room, Mrs. Hudson deserved better than that; but he also didn't want to drag himself out of bed to see what his mad friend wanted. Thankfully, Sherlock obligingly came pounding up the stairs a few seconds later, bursting into his room without bothering to knock. The World's Only Consulting Detective was in a down swing, no murders for a week, and only "The Case of the Missing and Rather Irritating West Highland White Terrier" in the meantime to tide him over. John knew the Terrier was irritating, because he had held the damn thing for four hours under a fire escape in the rain while he waited for Sherlock to chase down the suspect. It had been a long night and was rapidly turning into a long week.

John sighed and put his book down. His flat mate's forehead was creased, and his eyes were a greyish blue and tumultuous. His wild curls were squashed flat to his head from too much lying on the couch and not enough showering. While Sherlock was wearing pajama pants and his maroon dressing gown, he seemed to have forgotten to put on a shirt. He paced back and forth at the foot of John's bed for a few moments, his dressing gown dragging over the furniture and making him look absurdly like a mad king, which wasn't much of a stretch, really.

"John, have you seen my skull? I need it but it's not on the mantelpiece."

"I thought I was filling in for your skull." John gave a wry grin. "Mrs. Hudson probably has it. You know she hates it staring at her when she dusts the flat for us."

Sherlock scowled. "You fill in for my skull in a limited capacity, John. I need my skull."

"Well, Mrs. Hudson is asleep and I refuse to break into her flat in the middle of the night with you to steal your skull back. What on earth do you need it for besides talking out loud to as you solve cases? You don't even have a case!"

Impatience flashed in Sherlock's eyes. "I know I don't have a case John, I've been awake for three days and I'm trying to sleep. I NEED MY SKULL."

For a few moments Sherlock nervously pulled on the silk tie of his dressing gown. John squinted at the dressing gown tie in the light of his bedside lamp, there was a rather worn streak running down the center of the dressing gown tie. In fact, John realized, hit with sudden deductive inspiration (hard to escape having the odd one occasionally being the flatmate of Sherlock Holmes), there were worn streaks on ALL of Sherlock's silk clothes, usually around the cuffs of the shirts; John had noticed when he did the laundry. And really, when John had inspected the skull more closely after Sherlock had returned it from its first abduction by Mrs. Hudson (the skull wasn't the sort of thing one let go unexamined) he had noticed a rather unusually worn, smooth streak on the back of its head. This, coupled with the fact that the few times the detective did sleep in his room John had noticed the skull on the bedside table as if Sherlock had fallen asleep talking to it, led the ex-army doctor to a particularly amusing conclusion.

He glanced up at Sherlock, and noticed the detective developing a rather deep blush as he recognized his much slower friend was beginning to make an embarrassingly accurate inference. "Shut up John."

"Sherlock, is the skull your… binky?"

The look of rage, and embarrassed horror on the detective's face only confirmed John's statement. "Don't be PEDESTRIAN John. There's just a spot on it that's interesting to rub that takes my mind away from other things and helps me sleep. It's a form of meditation, not a…" his face creased in disgust. "BINKY."

John felt that he probably deserved a medal for the copious amount of not-laughing he was doing right now. He could probably push the matter towards the mortification of his friend as he pointed out that the skull must have some special significance as rubbing silk also seemed to sooth him but not help him sleep. However, considering how much sleeping Sherlock generally did not do, he figured that putting the man off sleep even more by teasing him was probably the worst possible strategy in promoting his good health, he kept his mouth shut on that front.

"So, uh, my skull" (he tapped his forehead) "doesn't work in the same capacity as your skull in that area?"

John winced. It had been meant as a joke, but it came out as more of a flirt. Recently as he became closer to Sherlock, he noticed that his "Not Gay" statement was becoming more ironic and less a desperate assertion, and that the eye contact they occasionally used to communicate with each other was becoming more intense and invasive. A couple weeks ago, standing over a crime scene, he had found himself goggling up at the other man with star struck awe, focusing on the interesting shapes Sherlock's mouth made as he talked. Licking his lips, John had blurted out "Fantastic!" before Sherlock stopped insulting Scotland Yard and the police force and started his deduction. Donovan and Anderson had looked mildly insulted, and Lestrade had broken down into sobs of laughter at the look of shock on Sherlock's face.

"John." Sherlock had murmured. "You DO realize you said that out loud, don't you?"

At that, John's admiration had dissolved into a fit of awkward coughing.

His mouth twisting in embarrassment at the memory, John looked back up at his flat mate, then jumped in shock as he realized that he had walked along the side of his bed and was now studying his cranium with interest.

John almost jumped away until he noticed the dark circles under Sherlock's manically tired eyes. The detective gently ran his hands through his friend's hair, then unceremoniously shoved John over and climbed into bed. "Might work fairly well," he muttered.

"Hang on… Sherlock! That wasn't an invitation!"

But the detective was already curled up in the fetal position and was running his thumb up and down the back of John's head, from the nape of his neck to the middle of his skull. John gave in, and sighed. The detective's fingers were strong and the regular strokes made his limbs relax. He even pushed his head into what was starting to feel like a massage. "Sherlock, that was a joke, it's the wrong texture even, isn't it?"

An arm curled around John's waist, and pulled him close. "Better." Sherlock muttered, his usually harsh voice softening and stumbling as it neared the edge of sleep. "Warmer."

As was usually the case, John didn't have the heart to object.


	2. Chapter 2

(It occurred to me that if I was going to write something called "The Case of the Missing Skull" I should actually have them find the skull, so this is probably going to be longer than I had planned. For those more interested in my "Playing with Fire", I'm sorry, but I'm putting it on hold for a while in favor of something more cuddly and easy to write)

It was oddly flattering that Sherlock had implied that John was a replacement for his skull in what was now a more than limited capacity. John had woken up the next morning to sunlight coming in through the window and a sleeping Sherlock wrapped around him as though John was a favorite teddy bear, his thumb still absently running up and down the back of his head. He stretched out, and turned to the other man, looking with interest at Sherlock who was unusually calm and peaceful, breathing deeply and evenly. John absently thought that filling in for the skull was rather the nicest thing he had done in a long time; the last time he had woken up tangled up in someone was pre-army; all his recent girlfriends were the sort that insisted on lilos or sofas until a supposedly predetermined time that they were aware of but he was not. And it was nice right now; usually he was the same height as his girlfriends and there was awkward breathing-into-each-others-mouths when they were wrapped up in each other, but now he was on his back resting his head on Sherlock's bicep, and Sherlock was on his side resting his chin on John's head, and everything was peaceful and wonderful.

John dragged the blanket up over the consulting detective's shoulder, and let his fingertips linger on Sherlock's shoulder for a while, feeling goosebumps from the early spring chill fade. The consulting detective grunted and opened his eyes to a slit. He froze for a moment as he took in the situation he found himself in, then sighed in defensive irritation before closing his eyes again, draping his arm over John's shoulder. John pulled closer, found a good position where he could hear Sherlock's heartbeat, which he noted in mild surprise did not thrum differently than the rest of humanity's, and dozed.

OoOoOoOoOo

When he woke up Sherlock was gone from his bed and the only evidence that he had been was a divot in the pillow John was sure he had not made, and warm patch in the bed that smelled vaguely of musky sweat and sharp chemicals. John rolled over into the warm spot, savoring the strange intimacy of being wrapped up in the smell of his flat-mate, a man he had killed for, indulged, and almost sacrificed his life for on several occasions before shaking himself out of his Sunday morning daze. He looked in the mirror, attempting to flatten his hair which stood up in a shock at the top of his head, and threw on a dressing gown over his pajamas, anticipating a shower after his breakfast of tea and jam and toast. He felt oddly nervous, as if he was preparing for an extremely impromptu date that he hadn't been aware he was going on until several minutes earlier. He supposed that, in all honestly, it was nothing of the kind. Being treated like a security blanket by an overgrown (if brilliant and prodigiously handsome) man-child did not a relationship or date make. Still, he scowled a little over the tired bags under his eyes that refused to disappear no matter how much sleep he had, and stopped just short of preening in the mirror. Being around Sherlock Holmes was enough to make anyone feel mildly inferior most of the time, and he decided that the fastest way to make himself miserable was by worrying about his appearance. Besides, John thought, giddily, Sherlock's last bedfellow was a skull, so in comparison, he decided, he was certainly winning.

When he stumbled into the sitting room after his shower, Sherlock was sitting in his chair with his knees pulled up to his chest, clean and fully dressed which meant, thank god, some sort of case was on and the 'down-swing' was coming to an end. John mentally canceled a lazy Sunday, perhaps with a walk in the park and some crap telly, and replaced it with a few dead bodies and his Browning, and possibly a few chases down back alleys. Sherlock flicked a glance up at him, and nodded at a cup of something on the table. "Tea."

"Oh! Thank you." John picked up the cup, and looked into it cautiously. The tea was almost white with milk, and still had the teabag floating, like a little island. Regardless, John raised it to his mouth cautiously; then tried to spit it out as subtly as possible as he realized that a certain consulting detective had punched the teabag down into the cup so vigorously that it had split open and tea leaves were now swimming just beneath the surface. He wondered if Sherlock would take offense if he made himself his own cup of tea, and decided, from the glare in the ice blue eyes, that he might. John cleared his throat gently. "Thanks Sherlock. Lovely."

He walked casually into the kitchen, started some toast and poured the tea concoction subtly down the sink before coming back out into the living room and sitting down with the paper. "So, we have a case on then?"

"Lestrade has a double homicide. And Mrs. Hudson does not have my skull."

Sherlock said it blandly without making eye contact, and John decided not to kick at the elephant in the room. "Homicide! Good. Fine. Breakfast will be ready in a few and then I'll get dressed."

Sherlock quirked a smile in his direction before turning back to his phone.


	3. Chapter 3

John remembered that when he was eight that he had a soft dog that he was particularly fond of. He was not the most imaginative child, so he called the dog, Dog. He had had it since he was very small, and it was the mangiest, scruffiest toy dog his elder sister Harry claimed she had ever seen. One of its eyes had fallen off, and there was black paint streaked across its back. It's felt ears were so stretched and pulled that it looked like it had an encounter with a vicious real-dog (though in reality, John just really liked carrying Dog around by his ears, swinging him up and down in circles).

One day, when he was in the fourth form, John decided it would be rather a good idea to take Dog into school, in his back-pack. He wasn't a complete idiot, and knew that if any of the other children saw Dog he would be in for a world of teasing and hurt, so he stuffed the scruffy thing at the bottom of his bag and covered it up with a scarf. It was deliciously comforting to poke his fingers under the scarf during class breaks, and mutter, "There you are then dog" to his bag.

Of course he didn't notice the rough boys were watching him. Rough boys usually assume that if another student is poking at his bag during the day there is money or food involved. Of course John had neither, but it didn't stop them from stripping him of his bag and using a bike lock to chain him to the bike rack through his belt loops before they left school.

When Harry found him an hour later, John had nearly screwed up enough courage to tear out of his belt loops despite what his mum would inevitably say about his nice pants. By the time Harry had cut him free with her pocket knife he had caved in and whispered to her about Dog, and Harry, darted away like a little lioness in the direction of the leader, Jameson's house.

When Harry had returned home that evening, she had a split lip and a black eye, and his back pack had been torn almost to shreds. But Dog was intact, and Harry told him with a certain amount of sisterly pride that she had told the boys that it was her dog, not John's. She ruffled his hair, and squished Dog next to his cheek, and it was the only time that John remembered that Harry's reckless behavior had earned her an ice cream from their parents instead of a grounding.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Sherlock was grinning as he pushed John over in the cab. "Two Homicides, one homeless girl and one well cared for elderly man; both in completely different parts of the city, neither connected by any acquaintances, yet both killed with a scimitar, which is a rather unusual weapon of choice, don't you think John. John?"

John was lost in thought. If Mrs. Hudson didn't have the skull, someone else must have it. Now who would know of Sherlock's attachment to the skull enough to steal it? Most people would just assume that it was part of Sherlock's general morbid ambiance. If not Mrs. Hudson and John himself, then who? Lestrade? Perhaps. Certainly not Donovan or Anderson. Molly? Unlikely, the girl was enamored with Sherlock but not enough of a stalker to know about the skull. Moriarty? John really didn't like the thought of that one, though somehow he could imagine Moriarty being frivolous enough to come after the skull in an attempt to burn Sherlock's heart out. Mycroft was most likely however; he had them under surveillance and might have known Sherlock to grow attached to objects as a child…

"JOHN!"

John jumped, and stared straight into Sherlock's light blue, almost clear eyes which were approximately six inches away from his face. Damn that man, no sense of personal space… "John, did you hear anything I said? I didn't keep you awake too late last night did I?"

There was a snigger from the cab driver, and John blushed bright red, running his fingers through his hair. "No, no Sherlock, you're fine. I was just thinking."

Sherlock gazed at him skeptically before he looked away out the cab window. "At any rate," he finished, "We will have to visit all the flower shops in London that sell azaleas before we can know for sure whether the murderer is male or female."

John, who was developing a rather vigilante frame of mind in regards to the skull thanks to his memories of his sister and several years in Afghanistan, and who's slightly more average mind had not made the same creative leap as Sherlock's in regards to the azaleas, merely stroked his chin thoughtfully, nodding absentmindedly.

By the time they arrived at the crime scene, John had made up his mind. Sherlock may be most suited to solving mysteries of the homicidal bent, but John would probably be more than competent at solving the case of the missing skull.


	4. Chapter 4

At the crime scene, things had started out rough. Anderson was being particularly sneering today, and Donovan had started to make snarky comments to John about his hobbies and bad taste in friends and flatmates. Lestrade was tired, and a bit clueless about the various types of scimitars, and, like John, was failing to make the same creative leap as Sherlock from scimitars to azaleas. The final straw was when Inspector Dimmock showed up and started an argument with Lestrade about who's precinct the murder was in (apparently the girl had been found in Lestrades and the elderly gentleman was found in Dimmok's) and the squabbling and shouting had gotten so loud and out of shape that Sherlock (who was actually trying to prevent more lives from being lost instead of calculating overtime costs) threw a minor temper tantrum that involved punching a conveniently located mirror.

John wondered why he hadn't seen the rubbing before now, but he assumed that it was merely something that people who thought they knew Sherlock would never think to look for. He had the hem of his shirt out from his pants right now and pinched tightly between his thumb and forefinger as he hurled abuse at both the D.I.s in such a manner as would put Mr. Holmes in the category of petulant young godhood; perhaps some enraged Adonis. For his part, John was shrinking back into a corner away from Anderson and Donovan and out of the range of sight of Lestrade and Dimmock. He had begun to notice that occasionally the D.I.s turned to him in an attempt to manage Sherlock, which he was moderately successful at, but honestly, the childishness of the spate and the potential lives at stake had tossed John completely on the side of his flat mate. He stared at the dead body on the ground, which was rather messy from the scimitar, and as was the case of most dead bodies, had very little opinion on the subject.

Occasionally, John had seen Sherlock, in a pique of frustration (usually during a drugs bust), grab his skull off the mantle and twist it around in his hands, stroking the counters of the object with his fingers and tapping the different bones as he murmured something close to a chant under his breath. Once, John sidled up close enough to hear:

_Frontal, Parietal, Occipital, Temporal, Sphenoid, Zygomatic, Nasal, Maxilla, Mandible._

At the time, it hadn't made much sense why a consulting detective would need to chant the different bones on the skull, but now that John had mentally established the skull was some kind of security object to Sherlock, it made quite a bit more sense. The rhythm, and the repetition must quite comforting and grounding to that huge bloody brain of his.

Now, Sherlock stalked around the room in high dungeon, glowering at Lestrade who was trying to calm everyone down and at Anderson and Donovan who seemed to have set up an impromptu betting pool as to whether Dimmok or Sherlock would win this little tiff. Dimmock himself, though considerably shorter than Sherlock, looked as though he was seriously considering rolling up his shirt sleeves and going for it. Occasionally, Sherlock's graceful demeanor, poncey clothes and high cheekbones gave people the impression that he was an easy hit, while he was actually quite good at boxing.

Sherlock's stance changed minutely and his eyes narrowed, as Dimmock clenched his fists at the side of his legs. John knew that if he threw a punch, Dimmock would have about 20 seconds before he was flat on his back from a consulting right hook to his jaw.

"Sherlock." John said gently as he appeared by his side, "You're bleeding." He gestured for the hand that punched the mirror, but Sherlock, seeing an object (well, human being. Well, skull replacement) that conveniently offered itself to him for analysis, grabbed John's head between his hands and firmly but gently tapped each bone:

_Frontal, Parietal, Occipital, Temporal, Sphenoid, Zygomatic, Nasal, Maxilla, Mandible._

John drew his brows together in awkward concern, but after two rounds of gentle tapping, beginning at the front of John's head and making its way down the back of his head, to his cheeks and ending at his jaw, Sherlock placed a hand on his shoulder and looked at him calmly. "Nice. More portable."

Thankfully the cut on Sherlock's hand was nothing serious, but John could already hear sniggers of "Sherlockian Mind Meld" from Anderson, and was fairly sure Lestrade and Dimmock would not have looked more surprised if he and Sherlock had just got done giving each other a passionate snog.


	5. Chapter 5

The trick, John decided as he sat outside the flower shop with red itchy eyes and a runny nose, was that he was going to have to be as nonchalant as possible with Mycroft. If he could casually ask Sherlock's brother, AKA the British Government about the skull if it came up in conversation, then perhaps he could find out more about Sherlock's childhood and the skull without stirring up trouble between the Holmes brothers and possibly between him and Sherlock.

The biggest problem with the plan, of course was that one did not simply call or text Mycroft for a casual conversation. The last time John had done so, with the noble intentions of possibly opening doors and ending the long standing childish feud between Sherlock and his brother, John had ended up being followed home from his job at Barts by the Secret Service, stuffed into the back of a long back car when he reached the front door, and wined and dined in a run-down old shack on the bank of the Thames. Mycroft, of course, had been delighted, but from that moment on John swore off seeking out Mycroft, and let the man approach him only on his own turf.

Perhaps a simple text conversation…

John pulled out his phone:

_Hi Mycroft._

Delete… Mycroft would know better than to accept a casual conversation at face value.

_Mycroft, I need your advice…_

Delete… Never become indebted to the British Government.

_How are elections going?_

John stared at the screen for several long minutes, then sighed and closed the text app. Mycroft knew that neither he nor Sherlock were interested in elections in the slightest. There was simply no way to start up a casual conversation with the British Government.

Or… maybe there was…

_12:23: How's the diet?- JW_

_12:24: Did my brother put you up to this? – MH_

John licked his lips. How was the best way to word this?

_12:28: Sherlock's skull shows more interest in living than you do in dieting. Which is silly, since you have more motivation than it does. - JW_

John felt a little guilty, he wasn't generally the type of person to hurl insults. But this was for a good cause.

At this, Sherlock swirled out of the flowershop in a cloud of pollen, and John began sneezing again.

"Your allergies are hindering our investigation." Sherlock said with disdain.

"Benydryl will slow me down, and there's a good chance you'll need me later."

The hint of a sneer began to form on Sherlock's face, but then his expression softened and John noticed he was absent-mindedly rubbing his shirt sleeve. "I suppose so."

John, unused to such acquiescence, smirked. His phone chirped.

_12:32: How so? - MH_

_12:33: It seems to have wandered off .- JW_

"Who are you texting?" Sherlock was peering at him curiously. Probably wanted to know which girlfriend he should plan on scaring off this month, John thought, momentarily irritated. But it was a little hard to be cross with Sherlock at this precise moment; rather in the same way it was hard to be cross with a small child. John scowled at the paternal instincts that were surfacing in regards to his best friend; it wasn't as though Sherlock wanted to read a bedtime story every night or suck his thumb. He just had a skull. A… skully. Which was starting to turn into a John.

"Nobody important, " John muttered, blushing involuntarily. Sherlock's eyes lingered on his face for a beat too long before he went back to discussing how the sympathy flowers given to the deceased old man due to his recent operation may have been prepared by the murderer because azalea pollen was found on the body of the homeless girl.

His phone chirped again and he checked it quickly. Of course Mycroft gave no sign of knowing exactly how much his brother was attached to the skull, though his message had a fairly patronizing ring to it.

_12:35: Have you tried cleaning the flat?_


	6. Chapter 6

Really, the sitting room and the kitchen were a dump. John knew he hadn't touched the cleaning in a week, and he also knew that Sherlock touching the cleaning was something that only happened if a) Sherlock was inconvenienced by the mound of papers and scientific equipment strewn over the kitchen and sitting room table to the point of tripping over things or b) if John or Mrs. Hudson mother-henned him enough that he took a few cursory seconds to move a few objects idly from one place to another.

The problem with the azaleas and the scimitar apparently wasn't too incredibly serious; it only warranted one nicotine patch so far (though John could tell there were a few more perched on the back of the couch at the ready). Sherlock was on his back, on the couch, praying to the gods of deduction, as John occasionally described it with an eye-roll. There was a good chance that the case would be solved by John's bed-time, which was nice, because even though tomorrow was Sunday, John enjoyed catching up with sleep whenever he could. The anticipation, John decided, had nothing to do with possibly finding himself cuddled up next to his admittedly attractive flat-mate that he was certainly not gay for.

"How close are you to solving it?" He asked Sherlock.

"Three hours."

John raised his eyebrow at the specificity. "Can you think and clean the flat at the same time?"

"Why on earth would I do that?"

"I dunno. To find your skull?"

Sherlock shot him a look of such intellectual disdain that John blew out his cheeks in resignation. "Right, fine, I'll do it."

The trickiest part was always picking over the kitchen table. It was not unusual for Sherlock to have several experiments going at a time, but some got outmoded or restarted, and just began to gather dust, mold, and other unhygienic attributes over several days. Occasionally John would come home to test tubes in the sink, but more often or not it was up to him to decipher which experiments were inactive and which ones would lead to a very irate consulting detective tantrum if they were disturbed in any way. Today there was one ringer of an experiment that had given the test-tubes a brown tinge, so they were moved into the sink. There were also a couple stained beakers, and a pipette stuck in a flower vase which had held flowers from Mrs. Hudson two months ago as a 'moving into the flat anniversary present'.

John checked the fridge, said hello to the head in there which stared back at him rather glumly, had a brief existential crisis in regards to the head-in-the-fridge consisting of wondering what his life was coming to, and finally moved on to the kitchen cupboards which actually didn't contain much other than a few plates and cups, (they got take-away more than they ate in) and some scientific equipment . No skull in the cupboard, no skull in the fridge, no skull on the table. Right.

Sitting Room. The bookshelves were probably the tidiest part of the flat if not for the dust, so John, focused as he was, only gave them a brief skimming over. The mantel was a little more jumbled, but nothing serious besides a forlorn, stale piece of toast with a screwdriver poked through it. Nothing in the fireplace, nothing under the couch (Sherlock grunted irately when John took a couple minutes to scrabble underneath it, but he was mostly lost in his mind palace and so wasn't completely shaken from his intellectual zen-like trance). In the end there was just the table in the sitting room where John did most of his typing, and that was relatively clear except for a large box of police related papers that John didn't remember having been moved since he first set foot in the apartment. He poked around the box a bit, and once he confirmed that the papers on the top were dated circua 2006 he nodded to himself and hefted it in his arms. "I'm just going to shove this in your room" John said, but Sherlock was too lost in his mind palace to notice.

Sherlock's bedroom was meticulously clean, so much so that John occasionally wondered if Sherlock's mess in the rest of the flat was engineered precisely to drive him insane. Sherlock hardly ever entered his bedroom except to change his clothes, however, his sleeping surface of choice was the couch (once Sherlock had laid on the couch for two days without moving except to drink water and chew at some eggrolls John had placed next to him). If the consulting detective NEEDED to sleep, however, he would come in here and occasionally sleep for up to 12 hours straight. Even the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't completely fight against biology and the comfort of a clean, empty bed.

Empty, that is, except for something grinning up at him with dead, hollow eyes. John grabbed the thing from where it sat, nestled in something like a nest of blankets, and stared at it with confusion. The smooth strip up it's back, where Sherlock had rubbed it repetitively. If he had needed this blasted skull so badly last night before he climbed the stairs to borrow John's, why hadn't he checked his bedroom, the most obvious place second only to the mantelpiece?

John strode out to the sitting room where Sherlock was lying, his fingertips still pressed together in his 'praying' pose, and placed the skull firmly on Sherlock's chest.

"That was in the middle of your bed."

Sherlock shook himself and started up, his pale blue eyes widened. He was startled, John noticed, but not exactly surprised. "Thank you John," he said smoothly.

"Why did you lie? Unless you're completely daft you couldn't have missed your skull being in the middle of your bed last night. After being awake for three days you would have gone to your bed, I know you wouldn't have just had a kip on the sofa."

John prepared for a fight. God knew the detective could run his mouth if he had to in order to get his way (for what, John wondered. His own skull wasn't much better than the boney one)

Sherlock stared up at him, his lips parted slightly. Then the corner of his mouth flicked up. "Don't worry John. Now that I have my skull back I won't have any reason bother you in your bed again."


	7. Chapter 7

(Warning-ish? John has one of his nightmares, which involves people dying, but not graphically. I hope this still makes K+ status.)

John couldn't stop puttering. He cleaned the tea kettle, twice. He edited the grammar in several of his blog posts. He ordered take-away, ate his portion, waved Sherlock's portion in front of him halfheartedly before boxing it, and then read his detective novel (which was rapidly becoming irritating because the main character didn't keep heads in the fridge or sulk on the couch for long periods of time). Eventually he cleared his throat a bit, went upstairs, got into his pajamas, came down to shower (inefficiently taking off his pajamas before putting them on again), went back upstairs, realized he was thirsty, came down to the kitchen again, got a glass of water, went back upstairs, decided he wanted to read his book some more, came back downstairs to fetch it, and caught the eye of an irritated consulting detective, who pointedly slapped another nicotine patch onto his forearm.

"Err, good night, Sherlock."

Sherlock grunted. The case was dragging on past three hours, and John blushed, wondering if his outburst about the skull was the cause of it. That's not to say that Sherlock wasn't making use of the skull; it hadn't left his hands since John had placed it on his chest, his thumb stroking up and down the back, and the rest of his fingers occasionally tapping out the rhythm:

_Frontal, Parietal, Occipital, Temporal, Sphenoid, Zygomatic, Nasal, Maxilla, Mandible._

He looked for all the world like an otter clutching a particularly interesting oyster, and for half a second, John considered how nice it might be if he sprawled out on Sherlock's stomach, chin resting in the middle of his chest and dozing to the feel of the detective's fingers running through his hair. He licked his lips thoughtfully, and wavered in the middle of the sitting room for a couple minutes longer than strictly necessary, before tearing himself away and walking up the stairs.

He flinched at an obvious sigh of relief from Sherlock's direction as he exited the room.

OoOoOoOoOoOo

_There were five of them, and the sound of gunfire was the only tenuous thread dragging John Watson back from where they were, tragically in front of him, by 100 ft, tragically caught in the open while John was able to dive into a closet from where he stood in the gutted remains of what looked to be a child's bedroom. Technically he wasn't attached to their regimen, so he knew that if he cowered back where he was for long enough the opposing side wouldn't know to look for him. His breath came rasping out in horror as he heard their screams through the thin walls. He would die if he went out to help them now; if he was lucky he'd get two of the enemy before being gunned down himself, but if he waited much longer here there would be no hope for them. He pressed his ear to the wall, one was screaming, shrill and long, one was gasping out a prayer, one was shouting a name, probably his girlfriend; John had seen a picture of her yesterday. The other two were quiet. John was happy for them._

_God, if only he could DO something. His hand twitched helplessly on his gun, for half a second he considered that perhaps putting the gun to his temple and pulling the trigger would help somehow but after a moment he recognized the delirium of panic. Oh god. Anything but this helpless cowering, please._

_Suddenly the door to the closet banged open, and John's mouth dropped open. "John, are you all right? I could hear you screaming."_

_Sherlock bloody Holmes was casually standing in the gun blasted doorway of a child's bedroom closet, leaning against it in languid interest. Why the hell Sherlock Holmes would be in Afghanistan wearing nothing but a white sheet was beyond John at the moment, but suddenly hope flared through him. If nothing else, he could protect Sherlock. He'd done it before with the cab-driver, and had at least tried with Moriarty at the pool. John scrabbled to his feet, thinking to jump on the ridiculous idiot and stuff him in the closet behind him. _

_But suddenly there was the blast and whiz of a gun, and there was red spreading across Sherlock's torso. Three more shots, more red. God, the man should be dead where he stood, collapsing limply over John like the rest of them who were outside, no longer screaming. But the (literally) bloody idiot kept talking while John kept screaming, which he hadn't properly noticed he was doing until now. _

"God John, wake up. You aren't breathing properly."

John's eyes flew open, and he scrabbled around his bed, still caught up in the aftershocks of the dream. "Gun, Sh'lock, need my gun, they got you but I'm a good doctor, I'll fix it, find me my gun I'll get them…" His chest was tight, but the blood rushed through his heart; it was beating too quickly and he groaned as the panic attack coursed through him, his breath coming out in short wheezing gasps.

Sherlock frowned, pushed the window open, and pulled John out of bed toward it. "Look, John, London. It's too cold for Afghanistan. I'm fine. Breath the cool air, you'll feel better."

John clutched Sherlock's shirt. Thankfully, he noted with mild interest, he wasn't wearing the sheet right now, or John's manic grip would probably have yanked it off. He would have to have a long discussion with his subconscious later about why Sherlock pranced around his dreams, even the dreams about the war, in that ridiculous bed-sheet.

The taller man absently rubbed up the back of John's head with his thumb, and it was all John could do to keep from breaking down in a fit of giggles. Here he was filling in for Sherlock's skull again. What did that make Sherlock to him?

As if reading his mind, Sherlock murmured, "I haven't needed the skull since I finished rehab, though it is soothing occasionally. The silk-rubbing is merely a bad habit. I just don't like being downstairs when you're having a dream. It derails my brain completely."

John blinked up at him blearily. "So the whole thing about needing the skull to sleep was a ruse so you could prevent my nightmares? Why didn't you hide the skull better?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I assumed that if I was unwelcome, you would find it for me, and if I wasn't you wouldn't. I didn't anticipate you finding it for me because you wanted to help me."

John yawned, and found himself smiling into Sherlock's chest. "You are an idiot. Are you finished with the case then?"

Sherlock looked down, then up, then out the window. John's breathing was back to normal, and the cool night breeze was putting goose-pimples on his skin. He closed the window, and lead John, who kept alternating between yawning and drooping his dozing head to Sherlock's chest, back to bed. "The case isn't quite solved. I suppose for once I can wait until morning."

"Oh?" John was barely conscious as he rested his cheek against Sherlock's shoulder.

"Yes. Apparently there are more important things for me to take care of."

John didn't respond, except for a soft breathy sigh.

Sherlock tugged the blanket over John and himself, the skull forgotten completely in the living room. The World's Only Consulting Detective pulled his Army-Doctor closer, rubbing the soft hairs on the back of John's head with his thumb as he drifted off to sleep.

End.


End file.
